University of Virginia Library

A nobull story wryte y fynde,
A pope hit wrote to haue yn mynde,
Of his modur & of her lyf
That holden was an holy wyfe,
Of myrthes sadde & mylde of mode,
Þat all men held her holy & gode;
Bothe deuowte & mylde of steuen,
Þat all men helde her wordy heuen.
So holy as she was holde of name,
All men were gladde of her fame.
But as holy as she holden was,
Þe deuell browȝth her yn a foule cas,
He trifeled her so with his trecherye
And ledde her yn lust of lecherye,
ffor with lust of lecherye he her begylde
Tyll she hadde conceyued a chylde.
And also priuely she hit bare
That þer-of was no man ware.
And for no mon shuld wyte of þat case,
Anone as þe chylde born was,
The chylde she slowȝ & wyryede
And pryuely she hit byryede.
Þer was she combred yn a carefull case,
And vnshryuen þer-of she was;
She ne tolde no preste her priuyte
ffor she wolde holy holden be.
Efte-sones she fell in þe same case
Ryȝth as beforn her be-tydde was.
ffor she was comen of hyȝ parage,
Of gentyll kynne & worþy lynage,
Þerfor she wolde not her synne shewe
Nor yn schryfte hit be-knowe,
And so her dedes wer not a-spyed.
But afturwarde sodenly she dyed.
When she was seyn so sodenly dye,
Men hoped she was yn heuen hye;
They helde her so holy & deuowte
Þat of her deth þey made no dowte,
But sykurly men wende y-wys
Þat she was worþy heuen blys.
Then aftur with-Inne a shorte tyme,
Vpon a day soone aftyr pryme,
The pope as he at his masse stode,
Vpon his modur he hadde þowȝt goode,
Prayng to god with conciens clere
The soþe to knowe as hit were.
And sodenly yn myddes his masse
Þer þrowȝ to hym such a derkenesse
Þat he lakkede ner þe dayes lyȝt,
ffor hit was derke as mydnyȝt;
In þat derkenes was myste among,
All a-stonyed he stode so hit stongke.
Be-syde he loked vnþur hys lere:
In þat derknes a þyng þrew hym nere,
A wonþurfull grysely creature,
Aftur a fend fyred with all her feture,
All ragged & rente, boþe elenge & euell,
As orrybull to be-holde as any deuell;
Mowthe, face, eres & yes
Brennede all full of brennyng lyes.
He was so agast of þat grysyly goste
That yn a swonyng he was almoste.
He halsed hit: “þorow goddes myȝte
That þe fende he putte to flyȝte,
And be þe vertu of hys blode
That for mankynde dyed on Rode,
Sey me sykerly þe soþe soone
What þou hast yn þis place to done;
What ys þy cause, þou cursed wreche,
Thus at masse me for to drecche?”
Þe gost answered with drury chere:
“I am þy modur þat þe beere,
Þat for vnschryuen dedes so derne
In byttyr paynes þus y brenne.”
Then sayde þe pope: “alas, alas!
Modur, þis ys to me a wondur case.
A, leef modur, how may þis be
In suche paynes þe for to se?
ffor all men wende y-wys
That þou hadde ben wordy heuen blys,
And full good þat þou were,
To praye for vs þat ben here.
Sey me, modyr, with-outen fayne,
Why art þou put to all þis payne?”
She sayde: “sone, sykerly,
I shall þe telle þe cause why:
ffor y was not such as y semed,
But myche worse þen men wened;
I lyuede in lustes wykkydly in my lyfe,
Of þe whyche y wolde me not shryfe;”
And tolde hym trewly all þe case
ffro þe bygynnyng how þat hit wase.
The pope lette teres a-down Renne,
And to his modyr he sayde þen:
“Tell me now, modur, for loue of mary flour,
If any þyng may þe help or sokour,
Bedes or masse, þy penaunce to bye,
Or ony fastyng, þy sorowe to aleye;
What crafte or caste or any oþur þyng
The may help or be þy Releuyng?”
“My blessed sone,” sayde she,
“ffull well y hope þat hit may be;
Syker & saf myȝth y be well
Who-so trewly wolde take a trentell
Of ten chef festes of þe ȝere,
To syng for me yn þis manere:
Thre masses of crystys natyuyte,
And of þe xij day oþur þre,
Thre of our ladyes puryfycacion,
And oþur þre of her Annunciacion,
Thre of crystes gloryous Resurreccion,
And oþur þre of his hyȝ Ascencion,
And of pentecoste oþur þre,
And þre of þe blessed trinite,
And of our ladyes Assumpcion oþur þre,
And of her Ioyfull natiuite þre;
These ben þe chefe festes ten
That sokour þe sowles þat ben fro heuen̄.
Who-so sayth þese masses, with-out fayle,
ffor syn̄full sowles þey shall a-vayle;
All a ȝere, with-outen trayne,
They delyuere a sowle out of payne.
Lette say þese masses be ȝour hestes
With-Inne þe vtas of þe festes!
And he þat shall þese masses do,
Sey he þer-with þis oryson also:
Deus qui es nostra Redempcio,
With all þe oþur þat longen þer-to.”
The pope was gladde her-of in fay,
And to his modur þen gon he say:
“Modyr,” he sayde, “þis shall be do,
ffor y am moste bounde þerto—
Thou were my modur, I was þy sone—
Thys same ȝere hit shall be done;
God graunte me grace to stonde in stede
Aȝeyns all þe synnus þat euur þou dede.
I commaunde hooly, my moder dere,
Þat þis tyme twelfmoneþ þou to me apere,
And hooly to me þy state þou telle,
That how þou fare y may wyte well.”
“My sone,” she sayde, “y woll yn fay,”
And with þat worde she wente her way.
Day by day þe ȝer gon passe,
The pope for-ȝate neuur his masse
The same dayes þat were a-syned,
To helpe his modur þat was pyned,
And toke þe orysons all-way þer-to
Ryȝth as she bad hym for to do.
xij moneþ aftur as he at masse stode
With gret deuocion & holynesse gode,
At þat same tyme full Ryght
He sawe a full swete syght:
A comely lady dressed & dyght,
That all þe worlde was not so bryȝt,
Comely crowned as a qwene,
Twenty Angellys her ladde be-twene.
He was so Raueshed of þat syght
That nyȝ for Ioye he swoned Ryght.
He fell down flatte by-fore her fete,
Þat deuowtly teres wepynge he lete,
And grette her with a mylde steuen
And sayde þere: “lady, qwene of heuen,
Modyr of Ihesu, mayde marye,
ffor my modyr mercy I crye.”
At þat worde with mylde chere
She hym answered on þis manere:
“Blessed sone, I am not she
Who wenest þou þat I be,
But certes as þou seest me here
I am þy modyr þat þe bere,
That her-by-fore, þou wyste well,
I was wordy payne yn hell,
And now y am such as þou seest her,
Þorow help of þe vertu of þy prayer,
ffro derknesse I dresse to blysse clere;
Þe tyme be blessed þat y þe bere!
And for þe kyndenesse of þy good dede
Heuen-blysse shall be þy mede.
And all þo þat leten þese masses be do,
Shall saue hem-self & oþur mo;
Þus may þey helpe her frendes all
That Reche-lesly yn synne falle.
Therfore, sone, þis story þou preche!
And almyȝty god y þe be-teche.”
At þe endyng of her wordes euen
An Angell her ber yn to heuen.
In to þat place god vs sende,
To dwelle with her with-outen ende.

Thys ys þe vertu, y þe telle,
Of seynt gregory trentelle.
But who so wyll do hit trewely,
He moste do more, sykurly:
Þe preste þat þe masse shall synge,
At eche feste þat he doþ hit mynge
He moste say with good deuocion)
Ouer Euen) þe commendacyon),
Placebo & dyryge also,
The sowle to brynge out of woo;
And also þe salmus seuene,
ffor to brynge þe sowle to heuen—
Among oþur prayeres þey ben good
To brynge sowles fro helle f[l]ode,
ffor euery psalme qwencheth a synne,
As ofte as a man þoth hem) mynne.
Loke with good deuocyon þou hem say!
And to all halewes þat þou pray,
To helpe þe with all her myȝte
The sowle to brynge to heuen bryght,
Ther euur ys day and neuur nyght—
Cryst graunt vs parte of þat lyght!
Loke þese ben sayde all in-fere
Euery day yn þe ȝere;
Neuer a day þat þou for-ȝete,
These to say þou ne lette!
Also in þe vtas of euery feste
Also longe as hit doth leste—
viijte dayus men) callen þe vtas—
Þe preste moste say in his masse—
A nobull orysoun) hit ys holde—
Þe colette þat fyrst y of tolde.
And aftur þe fyrste orysoun)
Þer ys an-oþur of gret Renoun)
Þat to þe sowle ys wonþur swete,
Menne calle hit þe secrete.
When þe preste hath don his masse,
Vsed, & his hondes wasche,
A-noþur oryson he moste say,
Þat yn þe boke fynde he may,
Þe “post comen” men don hit calle,
That helpeth sowles out of þralle.
And þat þis be don at eche a feste
As þe trentall speketh moste & leste;
Then may þou be sykur & certayne
To brynge þe sowle out of payne
To endeles Ioye þat lasteth aye,
Þat god dyed fore on good fryday.
To þat Ioye he vs brynge
Þat ys in heuen with-oute endynge!
Pray we all hit may so be,
And say Amen for charyte.